


An Introductory Guide to Vehicle Maintenance

by p1013



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Failwolf, Mechanic Stiles, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's car breaks down. He doesn't know how to fix it. Help comes with too many moles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Introductory Guide to Vehicle Maintenance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Febricant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/gifts).



“God _dammit_ ,” Derek said, pounding the steering wheel of the Camaro. The engine light was bright orange again, and now, instead of just running rough, the whole car had just stopped running. He pushed the hazard light button a little harder than he needed do and coasted to the side of the road, the car barely making it through the gravel before rolling to a stop.

Derek laid his head on the steering wheel, cursing.

“God damn piece of shit, no good fucking car. Can’t fucking run for ten minutes, can’t just _hold the fuck up_ enough to get me home. _No_ you have to die in _bum-fuck nowhere_. Mother of fucking _God_ ”

He yanked the key out, popped the hood release, and then climb out of the car. Kicking the front tire as he walked past, Derek reached for the hood, then started cussing again as the heat of the metal burnt his fingers.

“Son of a _bitch_!” He stuck the fingers of his injured hand in his mouth, then pulled the sleeve of his leather jacket over them and pushed the hood up. A cloud of steam and smoke roiled out, blinding him momentarily. He reached forward blindly, feeling for the metal thing that held the hood open. He fumbled it into place, waving away the steam.

The engine, still smoking, looked like a hopeless mess to Derek. Not that he knew what he was looking for. There were pipes and belts and hoses, and he thought that might be the filler cap for the wiper fluid ( _he’d done that before, right? or was that where the oil went?_ ). The smoke seemed to be coming from deep in the hood, and he leaned over to get a closer look, but just got a face full of awful smelling smoke.

“Fuck it,” he said, stomping back to the driver side door and wrenching it open. He pulled his phone out of the cup holder, then dialed Triple-A.

\---

It took thirty minutes for the flatbed tow truck to show up, and by then, Derek was at the end of his patience. His phone’s battery was low, and he didn’t want to risk it running out before anyone showed up, so he’d spent the last ten minutes reading through his car’s maintenance manual. Most of it was Greek to him, except for the parts that said he needed to get regular maintenance ( _which he hadn’t_ ) to avoid any major repairs ( _which he also hadn’t_ ).

Seeing the flashing lights in his rearview mirror did make him feel a bit better, though. He clambered out of the car to meet the guy, who was bent down in the front seat grabbing who-knows-what. When his head popped up - hair cut close to his scalp, face covered in moles, and wide eyes the color of whiskey - Derek thought about cussing again.

 _Why in the hell did they send a kid_? He wondered, fiddling with his Triple-A membership card.

“Hey, dude,” the kid shouted out of his open window. “I’ll be out in a sec, just grabbing some paperwork.” He ducked back under the dash, and Derek frowned.

 _This is going to be a waste of time,_ he thought, leaning against the trunk of the Camaro.

The kid finally got out of the tow truck, and Derek was surprised to see he was almost as tall as he was. The kid was lean, wearing an oil-stained tank top, heavy canvas work pants worn at the knees, and dark boots.

“I’m Stiles,” he said, stick out his hand. Derek shook it, surprised at the strength in Stiles’ long fingers. There was oil staining the bed of his nails and peeking out from underneath them.

“So, what’s the problem you’re having? Dispatch wasn’t too specific, just said you’d died?”

“Yeah, there was... smoke, and it was making this weird whistling noise right before it just stopped.”

“Hmm,” Stiles said, leaning into the open hood. “Give me a moment, I’ve got some ideas of what could be the problem.”

Derek walked up besides him, looking over Stiles’ shoulders into the confusing mess of mechanical nonsense. Where he was completely lost, though, Stiles seemed to look over everything like it was second nature. He wiggled a couple hoses; pulled a long, thin metal strip out, then stuck it back in, then pulled it back out and frowned; leaned in with a small flashlight he’d fished from his pocket, and then hummed.

“Well, I think I’ve got it mostly figured out. First off, you’re running out of oil. You been having any smoke from your exhaust?”

Derek shrugged.

“I guess? I haven’t really been paying attention to what it’s doing.”

“When’s the last time you had the oil changed?” Stiles asked, leaning back in to prod at some hidden mystery.

Derek looked up at the corner of his windshield, the small Jiffy-Lube sticker turned white by sun and time.

“I’m not sure,” he said, shifting his weight. He crossed his arms, took a step or two away from the car, then turned again.

“Alright, you need to make sure you’re getting that done every three thousand miles at the earliest, though you can push it a bit longer if you aren’t seeing any issues, maybe about five thousand. You’ll need to get this bad boy topped off as soon as possible.”

Stiles stood up and wiped his hands on his pants.

“The biggest issue, though, is that you’ve got a crack the size of the Grand Canyon on your exhaust manifold.”

“On my what now?” Derek asked, tucking his hands further under his arms.

“Exhaust manifold. It’s where all the gases from the engine go into your exhaust. A little crack’s not a huge problem, you can get those fixed pretty easily, but this one’s been getting worse for awhile. You hear any whistling, smell anything sweet while you’re driving?”

Derek nods, then looked down at the gravel on the side of the road.

“I just figured it was coming from the road,” he said, doing his best to avoid Stiles’ judging gaze.

“Well, you’ve got a mess on your hands now. The new manifold’s gonna cost anywhere from a hundred to three hundred to replace, depending who does the repairs. And there may be more going on in the engine because of the crack. It messes a whole bunch of stuff up in there if there’s not the right pressure.” Stiles shut the hood, pressing gently until the latch caught.

“Can you do anything about it now?” Derek asked, not liking the finality of Stiles’ movements.

“Are you kidding me?” He laughed. “No, man. She’s shot until you get her into a shop and looked at. I’m gonna pull the truck around, get you up on the flatbed. You can make yourself comfortable in the cab once I get everything set up. If you need to get anything out of your car, I’d do it now.”

Stiles climbed into the tow truck and started scribbling away on a clipboard while Derek grabbed his registration and insurance card from the glove compartment. He shut the door and waited until Stiles pulled the flatbed around and started hooking up cables and things to the front of the Camaro. Derek handed Stiles his keys, then shuffled around uncomfortably.

“It’s gonna be a minute, you can go wait in the cab if you want.” Stiles said, then slid under the front of the car. Derek heard some muffled curses and grunts, then the solid thunk of metal-against-metal as he walked past.

The inside of the tow truck was messier than Derek expected. There were papers tucked up into the visors, little bits of old paperwork sticking out haphazardly. One of the cup holders was empty, the other one filled with balled up receipts and straw wrappers. Thankfully, the seat was clear of any debris, so Derek hoisted himself in, buckled the seat belt, and watched Stiles wrestle the winch into place through the rearview mirror.

Stiles slid out from under Derek’s car, flipped a switch, and watched as it slowly pulled up onto the flatbed. Once it settled into place, he disappeared behind the Camaro. Derek heard a few more unsettling clunks before Stiles appeared on the other side of the cab and climbed in.

“So, the nearest mechanic’s is about twenty minutes from here, or I can take it to your usual spot if you’d prefer... Though, I’m guessing you don’t really have a _usual_ mechanic.” Stiles buckled himself in and started the truck.

“Where to, dude?”

“The closest is fine,” Derek grumbled, turning to look out the window again.

Stiles hummed in agreement, then pulled off onto the road. It was achingly silent in the cabin, Stiles tapping nervously on the wheel while Derek stared morosely out the window.

“You mind if I turn on the radio?” Stiles asked, then switched it on before Derek could respond. Classic rock blared out for a second before Stiles turned the volume down, grinning sheepishly.

“Sorry, man. I like my tunes.”

Derek nodded, then went back to staring out the window, wondering about the repairs and how much it was going to cost, and how long he was going to be without a car-

“It’s the- eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight,” Stiles sang, still tapping against the steering wheel.

“Can you not?” Derek asked, turning the radio out.

“What?” Stiles asked, gaping and looking decidedly _not_ at the road in front of him. “You don’t like Survivor?”

“I like Survivor just fine. I’d just rather hear them or nothing.”

“My karaoke is spectacular, I’ll have to know,” Stiles said, turning the radio back on and cranking the volume.

“Face to face!” Stiles sang along. “Out in the heat!”

Derek groaned and leaned back in his seat. Stiles started dancing along with the music, banging out a beat against the steering wheel that almost had them veering onto the shoulder.

“Hey, watch out!”

“Rising up, straight to the top!” Stiles answered, tapping more gently and straightening out the truck.

“Thank you,” Derek muttered, sinking lower into the seat.

“Had the guts, got the glory,” Stiles sang, giving Derek a thumbs up.

Derek huffed out a surprised laugh, then started singing along under his breath. Stiles beamed and turned the volume all the way up.

“It’s the Eye of the Tiger!” Stiles sang, almost shouting the lyrics over the deafening music. Derek started laughing, losing track of the song. He shook his head, but kept singing.

A commercial for a local used car sale came on afterwards ( _Come down to Crazy Randy’s Used Cars! Our deals are so low, you’d think we were NUTS!_ ) and Stiles quickly turned the radio back down to barely audible levels.

“You’re a good guy,” he said, grinning and panting slightly.

“Thanks,” Derek pulled his phone out and quickly sent a text to his sister. “What’s the address of this place?”

Stiles rattled off a street and number, and Derek forwarded the information on.

“Don’t worry, these guys are great. Whenever I need some serious work done, I go here.”

“You have other people work on your car?” Derek asked, puzzled.

“I can do a lot of the usual maintenance at home, but I don’t have all the equipment they do. Can’t fit a car lift in my garage,” he said, smiling. “Should be there in just a few more minutes.”

The cab filled with the quiet sound of the radio. Derek felt less like he was driving with a stranger than when he’d first gotten into the cab, and had to admit to a certain degree of regret that he’d never see Stiles again.

They pulled up to the garage a couple minutes later, Stiles humming along to the radio under his breath. The silence of the cab once Stiles shut to truck off was stiffling.

“So, I’ll get your car down, and Boyd here will take care of you. They’ll do payment plans, too, if it ends up getting too expensive. Just need you to sign some paperwork here,” Stiles said, passing over a clipboard.

Derek took it, filled out his personal and Triple-A membership info, then passed it back. Stiles hand brushed against his for a second, and Derek had to fight back a shiver.

He climbed out of the truck, watched as his Camaro was carefully lowered from the flatbed and onto a lift. Stiles talked briefly with a large black guy in coveralls, then came back to stand next to Derek, hands stuffed into his back pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“You need a ride? I can drop you off somewhere, if you need it.” He said, mouth quirked up in a small smile.

“No, my sister’s on her way. Should be here any minute.” Derek said, feeling his face flush slightly.

 _What are you doing_? He wondered, trying to think of a way to break the sudden, awkward tension.

“Well,” Stiles said, pulling a pen from his pocket, “if you ever have car trouble or just want to learn a couple of things, you should give me a call.”

And then he grabbed Derek’s hand, long, stained fingers wrapping gently around lightly tanned skin, and scribbled seven digits into Derek’s palm. Stiles scribbled a quick smiley face down, then let go, blushing.

“Yeah,” Derek said, throat suddenly dry. “I’ll do that.”

He stared at the number the whole ride home, Laura cackling from the driver’s seat the whole way.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [fireeverything](www.archiveofourown.org/users/fireeveryything), whose car broke down yesterday after twelve years of loving service. I don't know anything about cars, so thank google for the details of this one. This is completely unedited or beta'd, in it's pure, raw form. Makes you think about what my other stuff looks like before I edit, doesn't it?


End file.
